


Bloodletting

by BlueEyedArcher



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Captivity, Imprisonment, Injury Recovery, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mystery, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Rescue, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22432519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyedArcher/pseuds/BlueEyedArcher
Summary: It happened so fast, Jaskier still couldn't make sense of it even hours later. His mind was reeling from the whole ordeal and he wasn't even the one in danger. At least not directly. His brows furrowed in concentration as he picked at the frayed edges of his best banquet silks. His stomach clenched tightly, a nauseating roll of worry wound up in an impossible knot as he replayed the evening's events over and over again in his head. Guilt driving this moment of self-punishment as he memorized every detail by force.----------Jaskier drags Geralt to a rich fancy party for some downtime but the Witcher inevitably finds monsters in attendance. The party does not go as planned.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 85





	Bloodletting

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another instance of me impulsively writing yet another random 3am idea. This one will probably be only 2 or 3 chapters. So it'll be short. Hopefully. It may change. 
> 
> Either way! I hope you enjoy!

It happened so fast, Jaskier still couldn't make sense of it even hours later. His mind was reeling from the whole ordeal and he wasn't even the one in danger. At least not directly. His brows furrowed in concentration as he picked at the frayed edges of his best banquet silks. His stomach clenched tightly, a nauseating roll of worry wound up in an impossible knot as he replayed the evening's events over and over again in his head. Guilt driving this moment of self-punishment as he memorized every detail by force.

The evening had been a grand one, a soiree fit for a King, fountains swelling with wine and twinkling lights lit spectacularly to bob on the surface as guests tipped their glasses to catch a taste of the wondrous nectar that flowed. The tables were overflowing with trays upon trays of lavish food to leave any man with even the most refined and reputable palate drooling over the assortment.

There were playful yet tasteful activities all around the massive exquisite estate that pulled the party-goers in varying directions of curiosity. Jaskier had been lucky enough to secure such an invitation, rubbing elbows with the best of the best the Continent had to offer. Artists, nobles, politicians, etc. The wealthiest and most elite had come to enjoy themselves to the utmost letter and wile away copious amounts of coin on the events to follow the next evening in a "charitable" auction of the finer things in life. Meanwhile tonight was but a taste of those endless luxuries.

Jaskier had flitted about like an excitable hummingbird, chattering and chirping away at the endless sea of people with spectacular interest. His lute caressed lovingly in his arms as he regaled one request after another for many various songs. Some were old and nostalgic, some were newer and lacked lyrics, but most often asked for were the songs he had written and sung himself. The tales of his adventures with one very grumpy Witcher. The crowd listened, holding onto every note and word twisted beautifully into a melody and applauded him with generous praise at the end.

Jaskier's face split into a too large grin as he preened and prided himself and his accomplishments, that his name had reached the far flung edges of even this stiff and stuffy gaggle of nobility. His pale blue eyes searched the crowd for the darkest corner of the room which he anticipated to find one glowing set of amber eyes staring back with an appraising look. Jaskier met that smallest hint of smile on the witcher's lips and felt his chest fill with the warm fluttery delight. His witcher was watching, the only soul in the entire estate that mattered most to the bard. The only ears that he was determined to listen. The only mouth he begged to speak praises towards him. All these wealthy idols and icons could go plough themselves with a golden erection for all he cared. Their words may inflate his ego exponentially, but the only ones that truly mattered in this trifling and bleak little world they wandered daringly, were the ones that fell from well concealed smiles that flashed sharp teeth and a biting wit.

Geralt didn't rely on flowery prose or fill the air with nonsensical preening. He didn't flatter those around him with empty promises and praise. He was deadly precise and reserved with all the patience and quick wit of a well armed and experienced warrior both in the heat of battle and in the throes of long winded court associations. He said what he thought was honest and true. He didn't gain anything at all from pretty lies and he didn't care for mindless allies. His words were as true as an An Seidhe's arrow and Jaskier was an eager and willing target for their barbed tips to dig into.

Geralt looked to be a wolf on the prowl, even at this distance his discomfort in the finer clothes that Jaskier had rustled up for him, was rather painfully apparent. The black doublet and dark ornate trousers were visually pleasant on the witcher, complimenting his piercing gaze and that almost unnaturally white hair that was carefully braided out of his eyes. A feat which was accomplished by Jaskier's diligent and skilled fingers. They were good for more than just plucking lute strings, he swears.

The bard could imagine the witcher's discomfort was further secured by his lack of weaponry. He looked displeased, shifting uneasily in the corner with his back to the sturdiest wall he could find and melting into the shadows to ignore the horde of drunken nobility and their constant chattering. Men and women alike murmured extraordinary tales about the aforementioned witcher, complete and utter barbarous hear say and fairytales truly, all the while unaware that the witcher they spoke of was within earshot of their mutterings and giggly gossip.

It still amused Jaskier in that aspect, how so many know  _ of  _ the fearsome and foreboding White Wolf but so few could actually pick him out of a crowd, or in this case, the shadows in which he lurked like some storied beast.

As the festivities wore on and Jaskier discovered he needed a well deserved break, he noticed the absence of his White Wolf. A quick scan of the room left him only mildly concerned that he may have been swept away by some smooth talking skirt that waltz past. The bard felt only a momentary bristle of jealousy at the idea but nudged it away as he took a more than welcome offering of absinthe from the waitress that stopped to praise his performance. He smiled warmly at her and graciously accepted her wonderful and somewhat flirtatious words. After a pleasant departure with promises of returning later to continue their conversation, he made for the nearest table lined with delicacies.

His lute hung on one shoulder while he picked through the sticky mess of finger food on his plate, his back to a chosen corner (cause seriously Geralt's ever constant paranoia was rubbing off on him) and scanned the room with a calculated eye. It took him a second sweep before he spotted the head of white hair heading off to the furthest edge of the courtyard. Normally Jaskier wouldn't be at all concerned had he not recognized the hard edge drawn in the witcher's shoulders and the sharpened gaze that tracked a mysterious figure through the crowd ahead. The bard has accompanied the wolf on enough contracts to know the look of a witcher on a hunt.

It figured the witcher, of all people, could accompany the bard to a party only to find monsters. Will wonders never cease? Jaskier hoped not since this kind of thing was what inspired great ballads filled with glory and triumph.

He stuffed a biscuit into his mouth and washed it down with a hasty gulp of wine from his goblet before easing his path through the crowd to pursue his wolf. Not that he was any use in a fight, but his curiosity wouldn't be sated if he remained where he was, and who was to say Geralt would indulge him with the tale later or even admit to some epic encounter while he thought Jaskier was otherwise indisposed to his entertainment for the evening. He couldn't let this opportunity slip by untouched.

Jaskier had followed the witcher and his target out of the main courtyard and its extravagant design into the lower gardens which were comprised mostly of hedgerow mazes and carefully trimmed shrubbery in an assortment of lavish and snobbish poses of various creatures. It was the most ridiculous display of  _ too much coin to spend _ that seemed to be a universal exclamation from most wealthy nobles that put too much stock in flaunting what they have. Or don't currently have, as many often utilized these events to hide their failing favor and funds.

Jaskier ignored the fountain seats already taken up by drunken paramours curled around each other in a tangle of lips and limbs. He sheepishly slipped by, tracing the path worn in the grass by footsteps on damp earth. He thanked the small lessons that Geralt had taught him, brief occurrences where the witcher humored Jaskier's curious questions about his witchery skills. Unbeknownst to the man, Jaskier had been paying attention and he retained some tidbits of the information Geralt had given him over the years. Like how to tell if drowners inhabited certain bodies of water, the subtle differences in tracks on a path, what plants were poisonous and what creatures were ultimately harmless and would leave him alone if he gave them food or was loud enough to scare them off.

He searched the surroundings, listening closely for subtle sounds of fighting or struggle. Mostly he was interested in the screams of a dying beast begging for their lives at the hands of one very irate witcher.

"No-no no! Wait!  _ Ack ughnnn... _ " 

Jaskier's stomach dropped out when he heard the overly familiar voice just one row over. His head snapped up, turning to face the direction as his feet started moving before his brain could tell him where to go. He gripped the strap to his lute tightly in his hands as he rounded the corner of the hedges to find Geralt pinned against the pedestal of a stone monument. His body was curved awkwardly into the dip, limbs pinned unceremoniously by the stone that barred him. One hand scrambled at the strong grip holding him down. His fingers curling into dark fabric in desperate trembling gasps and pained groans as the creature hunched over him shuddered and hissed. The hand fighting valiantly to get a grip suddenly dropped as the witcher grew slack against the stonework. Jaskier jolted when a sickening squelch followed. The creature made a wet popping sound and stepped away from the witcher, trailing its tongue along bloodied lips, lapping up the escaping droplets as if it were a fat noble savoring a rare and expensive vintage wine.

The bard's eyes fell to the lump of silver that was recklessly abandoned in the grass, discarded with a wanton toss. He willed all the strength and courage he had into his limbs and threw himself at the fallen dagger that Geralt had kept hidden on his person. Scooping it up, he turned quickly, driving the blade deep into the creature's cloaked back. He pried it back as it screeched, turning sharply to swing at the bard but Jaskier had stumbled and narrowly avoided being struck. He lunged once more, catching it in the chest as the beast twisted on him. A slash of its claws severed the strap of his lute in one foul swipe, the instrument dropped with a jarring clang as strings vibrated against the wood.

The beast whirled on him and approached, prying the sizzling silver from its chest and letting it drop to the earth, slickened and blackened by blood. Jaskier's heart jumped into his throat as he let out a scream as the creature moved. But something heavier hit him, a golden aura of energy surrounded him as the heavy weight of the witcher summoned Quen to shield them and force the beast back. It stumbled with a violent scream of fury, slashing at the barrier as Geralt struggled through the haze and weakness. The barrier broke like fragile ice sheets allowing the creature to proceed. A quick fumble of fingers called upon a raging inferno that streamed at the monster's face. Its screams filled the night with growing terror and agony before fleeing, setting the shrubbery alight in its hasty departure.

"Geralt?" Jaskier called to the witcher as the weight against his chest grew heavier. Geralt's head lolled to the side, blood pooling from the wound on his neck. His skin was sickly pale and his eyes drawn shut as he groaned at Jaskier's jostling. "Geralt! We have to move!" The bard begged, reaching for the silver dagger and his lute, hoping to arm himself before the beast decides to get payback. The shrubbery smoked and smoldered, rising dark clouds high above as the guests loitering in the gardens screamed frantically and shrieked. The panic lured in the guards to investigate, searching the gardens while Jaskier struggled to get the witcher to wake up.

He hid the weapon inside of Geralt's boot quickly, and turned to greet the armed men as they strategically started putting the flaming plant life out with buckets of water from the nearby fountains.

"Help me! My friend has been attacked. He was injured!" He pleaded, crawling in the grass on his knees, one hand still trying to wake the unconscious witcher. The guards stared in confusion before jumping to act. Two men lifted Geralt up, his arms slung over their shoulders as they hastily retreated to the estate. Jaskier stumbled to his feet unsteadily, clutching his lute tightly to his chest as he trailed after them, his eyes focused on the worsening complexion of the witcher.

Hours had passed by, and they were harbored in one of the guest bedrooms of the manor. The owner of the estate had very graciously allowed them to stay while they called for a healer to tend to the wounded. Geralt had woken up long enough to mumble Jaskier's name and ask for one of his potions. Incase of emergencies, Jaskier kept a few carefully hidden inside his lute case, which was quickly procured after the incident. He managed to give the witcher a dose of swallow, easing it past the man's lips as he drowsily sipped, trying not to choke as he swallowed. His head hit the pillow, a shiver racing through him with a series of chills before his consciousness slipped away. Jaskier fretted, drawing more blankets around the witcher and adding more wood to the fire that warmed the room. It was unpleasant to say the least, far too hot for the bard but he didn't lament shedding a few layers to cope as long as it helped Geralt. His fingers woven in the witcher's, pleading to whatever gods might be listening to have mercy on this man.

Jaskier was the furthest thing from a priest and a believer, but he knew when to let go of his pride, swallow his personal perspective on the world and humble himself to forces beyond his control. Anything to keep Geralt safe.

Jaskier gently outlined the stark white patches of bandages that encircled the witcher's neck where sharp teeth had tore away at flesh and left it gaping. Geralt had bled so much, soaking through Jaskier's jacket and staining through the layers of fabric until it dampened his own skin. It was dried and tacky now, an unpleasant sensation when he moved, the hard scratchy sensation was easily ignored in lieu of more distressing matters at hand. The healer had come to check on Geralt briefly, ordained that his injuries were not as grievous as she anticipated, even praising the bard for his quick work with the potion. Jaskier smiled bitterly at the words, finding no skip of happiness from them. 

She was an elderly woman, wise in her years and astute at her profession but her knowledge on treating witchers was nil. She could only speculate from what she has learned in books. Words unworthy of praise, as far as Jaskier was concerned. That didn't secure his relief in knowing Geralt's fate. She could only treat the physical wound while the rest was up to the witcher and his mutations to combat the injury and its effects.

She left to tend to the other injured guests. As far as Jaskier had overheard, a sparse few were injured in the panic, mostly from trampling and fighting to flee. Two had been affected by smoke inhalation from the fire in the maze, and one had apparently fallen from a considerable height. Not related to the panic but to the sheer amount of alcohol consumed and the foolish idea to try balancing on the railing of a balcony.

He had spent most of the night curled around the witcher, their fingers intertwined as he watched with weary eyes, perched like an ever loyal guard dog by his side. He searched Geralt's expression for any shift or sign of his condition lessening. Needless to say the festivities had been canceled for the evening after given the scare that had happened and the damages inflicted on the grounds.

Very briefly, the Lady of the manor had introduced herself, still veiled in the carefully chosen mask of her evening disguise much like all the rest of the nobility. Her long black gown and dark chestnut hair was carefully curled to frame what would have been a very lovely face were Jaskier in a better mood. She had divulged quietly that she had a meeting with the witcher earlier that evening and made a request that he help her in sussing out a problem. Apparently her concerns had to do with a monster that was hunting a certain social circle in the city and the party was a way to draw it out of hiding.

"Master Witcher had been investigating the problem. I feared it would strike me at my home and my fears seem to have been proven correct." She lamented, her hands folded carefully in front of her as she gazed down at the unconscious man.

_ It didn't attack you though. _ Jaskier wanted to correct her, a petty little jab at her selfish concerns. Instead, it had gone after Geralt who was ill prepared for such a fight. As if the tight security and demands for unarmed entry weren't bad enough. Had he had his sword, he would have never been taken by surprise like this.

"Usually when someone asks a witcher to take a contract, they give them a bit more forewarning." He spoke sharply, his tongue pressing against the edge of his teeth as he forced himself to settle before his emotions get the better of him.

"My apologies but I was unaware that a Witcher had been passing through. When I saw him watching your performance and I heard your songs, I  _ knew _ he would be my only hope." She countered, her voice wavering with barely concealed sadness. Jaskier thought that maybe it was a ruse, a carefully calculated ploy of emotions to make him feel guilty for his outburst. Yet, he ignored it. He squeezed Geralt's hand more tightly and forced the room to fall into silence. The woman seemed to catch the hint of his displeasure, breathing a heavy sigh of frustration and resignation before turning to leave. She stopped just long enough to talk to the guards outside the door before she was gone for good. 

Jaskier's thoughts turned acidic as he rummaged over all the reasons he despised nobility. The coin was nice, the influence was useful, but at the heart of it all, the world was so volatile and bitter beneath their carefully crafted veneer of social indifference and superiority. Everything was so much better at the top? Jaskier couldn't help but blatantly disagree. It was another form of misery dressed up in expensive garments and vibrant colors to look appealing so the desperate masses below would envy them and make them feel even a fraction of worth more than the rest. Their value as people was flimsy at best, helpless and immature and so very greedy.

Maybe it was his own upbringing that caused the sour views on his fellow noblemen? Or maybe it was Geralt rubbing off on him? Or the more likely reason being, as a  _ humble bard _ he has seen more of the world than any nobleman or King could dare claim. He has tasted the most blessed fruits of labor and the true nectar of happiness while elbow deep in the squalor of peasantry and neck high in roguish danger. He has drank with warriors, sang to bandits, battled monsters and wooed ethereal beauties with his charms. He has found true contentment and happiness while barely a copper clung to his name, stretched out on a shared bedroll tucked close and wrapped in the arms of a witcher to ward off the dangers and cold of a long night.

He has no place to call home. He is a man of the dirt roads and the winds of destiny. And his only guiding hand was attached to one very grumpy and quiet witcher. The nobility may have their fortunes of coin, but at the end of the night, Jaskier was the wealthiest man among them with only a few coins in his pocket, a lute and a lump of bread in hand.


End file.
